Sandra Belloni — Volume 5 eBook

Not only did she know herself now a face of many faces;
but the life within her likewise as a soul of many
souls. The one Emilia, so unquestioning, so
sure, lay dead; and a dozen new spirits, with but a
dim likeness to her, were fighting for possession
of her frame, now occupying it alone, now in couples;
and each casting grim reflections on the other.
Which is only a way of telling you that the great result
of mortal suffering—­consciousness—­had
fully set in; to ripen; perhaps to debase; at any
rate, to prove her.

To be of worth was still her fixed idea—­all
that was clear in the thickening mist. “I
cannot be ugly,” she said, and reproved herself
for simulating a childish tone. “Why do
I talk in that way? I know I am not ugly.
But if a fire scorched my face? There is nothing
that seems safe!” The love of friends was suggested
to her as something to rely on; and the loving them.
“But if I have nothing to give!” said
Emilia, and opened both her empty hands. She
had diverted her mind from the pressure upon it, by
this colloquy with a looking-glass, and gave herself
a great rapture by running up notes to this theme:—­

“No, no, no, no, no!—­nothing! nothing!”

Clear, full, sonant notes; the notes of her true voice.
She did not attempt them a second time; nor, when
Sir Purcell requested her to sing in the course of
the evening, did she comply. “The Signora
thinks I have a cold,” she said. Madame
Marini protested that she hoped not, she even thought
not, though none could avoid it at this season in this
climate, and she turned to Sir Purcell to petition
for any receipts he might have in his possession,
specifics for warding off the frightful affliction
of households in England.

“I have now twenty,” said Madame, and
throwing up her eyes; “I have tried all! oh!
so many lozenge!”

Marini and Emilia laughed. While Sir Purcell
was maintaining the fact of his total ignorance of
the subject against Madame’s incredulity, Emilia
left the room. When she came back Madame was
pressing her visitor to be explicit with regard to
a certain process of cure conducted by an application
of cold water. The Neapolitan gave several shudders
as she marked him attentively. “Water
cold!” she murmured with the deepest pathos,
and dropped her face in her hands with narrowed shoulders.
Emilia held a letter over to Sir Purcell. He
took it, first assuring himself that Marini was in
complicity with them. To Marini Emilia addressed
a Momus forefinger, and Marini shrugged, smiling.
“Water cold!” ejaculated Madame, showing
her countenance again. “In winter!
Luigi, they are mad!” Marini poked the fire
briskly, for his sensations entirely sided with his
wife.

The letter Sir Purcell held contained these words:

“Be kind, and meet me to-morrow
at ten in the morning, at that place where you
first saw me sitting. I want you to take me to
one who will help me. I cannot lose time
any more. I must work. I have been
dead for I cannot say how long. I know you will
come.